


Howling to The Same Moon

by MathIsMagic



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Family Feels, Fandom Trumps Hate 2020, Fix-It, Gen, House Stark Family Feels (ASoIaF), Stark Family Reunion(s) (ASoIaF), Wargs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:14:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26000980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MathIsMagic/pseuds/MathIsMagic
Summary: “We are never aloneWe are all wolvesHowling to the same moon.”― AtticusArya and Robb reunite.
Relationships: Arya Stark & Robb Stark, Nymeria & Arya Stark
Comments: 8
Kudos: 105
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	Howling to The Same Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mepeters81](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mepeters81/gifts).



> This fic is gifted to mepeters81 for her donation for the Fandom Trumps Hate event!
> 
> Huuuge thanks to my beta, Shializaro!

When the Gold Cloaks come for Gendry a second time, Arya is _done._ For _weeksmonths_ years things have been falling apart, and Arya could do _nothing._ Nothing that mattered anyways. Not for Micah, or for Lady. Not for Sirio, for Father, for Sansa… and now not for Yoren.

Logically, Arya knows that there is no way they can win this. Their little group has been travelling through the forest on muddy, uneven King’s Road for days. They are cold in their mud-caked torn clothes, they are exhausted from the long day walking, the nights on thin matts and the unending vile heckling of the prisoners Yoren is transporting as new recruits to the Wall. They are hungry. The provisions hadn’t factored in two more tag-alongs and all their rations are smaller for it. They are weak and exhausted and have no hope of standing against the Gold Cloaks with their training and their Lannister-paid gleaming weapons. They should probably just hide and run for it. It is a moonless night, surely nobody would find them in the forest.

It is what Yoren had wanted. What he had died to buy them time for.

But Gendry had rushed into the fight, and she’s not leaving him to fend for himself. This is an enemy who had already taken so much from her, coming for a friend she might yet save. She is done leaving her people to die. So she swallows down her terror and follows him, near blindly with her sword clutched tightly in her hand, into the chaos Yoren’s last stand wrought. It’s so loud; steel on steel, grunts and screams from dying men, wolves howling in the forest around them, and the awful, now-familiar, sound of tearing flesh-

“Boy! Help us, Boy!” Voices call from the growing flames to the side of the battle. Arya glances at the three men in the cage instinctively, burning her night vision and losing track of Gendry in the process. She hesitates; burning alive is a terrible fate, not even these criminals deserve that, surely? But Gendry is out there in that dark chaos somewhere, he might need her...

“A man can fight!” Jaqen calls, and that decides her. The lone wolf dies, but the pack, even a temporary one, can survive. Arya fully intends on surviving this, so she is going to need all the allies she can get. 

She brings him the nearby ax, pausing only long enough to see that they can now free themselves, before she runs back in the last direction she saw Gendry heading. The night is so very _dark_ compared to the fires from before, and it’s difficult to see, but she thinks that large fighting lump over there might be him.

The fist comes out of nowhere. Suddenly all Arya can see is the sky, and a hulking silhouette that she can just _tell_ is Lannister-vile, even when she’s half-blind and wheezing. She had dropped Needle when she hit the ground, and now she grasps desperately for it, feeling only grass and dirt. It doesn’t help that her head is still spinning from the hit, so her vision is wrong, blinking between the sky, other scenes of the fight, and what looks like _herself_ and the man towering over her, but from behind.

The wolves are much louder now, practically on top of them, and Arya’s vision settles on the view of herself, of the Lannister man she can now clearly see standing over her own body, about to strike.

_No!_

She thinks, but not just her. Something foreign and animalistic melds into her _hateangerprotectiveness_ and her vision lunges forward. She bites the man, scratches at him with claws not her own, bringing him fully down, before she keeps going, she needs to protect the rest of her pack-

And there’s Hot Pie, fallen and terrified, so she tears through his closest attacker-

And there’s a grey wolf, her _strongbraveSecondfang,_ facing three men at once; she brings one down as she moves and that’s enough for him to match the other two-

Jaqen made it free, it seems, and he didn’t lie, _a man can fight_ , so he can wait a moment, because-

 _littlebrownQuickpaw_ wasn’t fast enough to dodge that crossbolt, and the archer will _pay_ for that, she was so young-

And there’s Gendry, overwhelmed but still struggling, he’s a fighter, yes, her Girl can keep this one-

Wait, ‘her girl-?’

Arya opens her eyes, the taste of blood fading from her mouth, to find a massive wolf standing over her.

“ _Nymeria!”_ She lurches up to her knees to take her wolf’s giant head in her arms, barely managing to stay upright when Nymeria pushes back into the embrace. _I missed you so much_ she _saysthinkshears._ An ache she hadn’t realized she had been feeling eases deep in her chest. 

For a moment, amidst the raging battlefield, Arya can believe everything will be alright.

* * *

In the aftermath of the fight, Arya is loath to split from her pack, but even she can see the need. When this group of Gold Cloaks doesn’t return promptly — or when the few straggling survivors that had surely escaped them _do_ return — reinforcements would come again, and they would stand no chance at all. Even Arya can see they need to move quickly, to split up. But when Hot Pie brings her one of the Gold Cloak’s former horses he and Gendry had scrounged up, she shakes her head and refuses.

“C’mon Arry, you were a beast in that fight, but even you can’t take on a whole army!”

She scowls, but doesn’t yell, because it’s true, and she knows Hot Pie is just worried. “I’m not going to! I’m going to go into the woods with Nymeria, where horses can’t follow.”

That much, at least, she knows. She and Nymeria are _not_ separating again, and Nymeria’s wolves need space to withdraw and regroup themselves. _Away_ from large groups of humans and horses. But she also hates leaving Gendry and Hot Pie so defenseless. She isn’t losing her packmates because of something as _stupid_ as rickety horse legs that can’t follow where she needs to go. She needs to do _something_ to protect them, she can’t just rely on speed and dumb luck.

“I’ll- I’ll leave false trails. Try and buy you some time, or at least split up whoever comes after us next.”

Gendry’s scowl matches hers. He doesn’t like this plan much more than she did. But they don’t really have any better options, and his wisdom not to try and change her mind wins out. “Fine, but then what are we doing with the extra horse? I’m not leaving it for them to take back.”

Arya thinks it a little petty that he’s making that her problem. There are enough other survivors of their group scattered around that one of them would probably find it before the gold cloaks. Even the ones who had scattered immediately after the fight can’t have gone that far. But if Gendry wants her to offer a solution in exchange for him accepting the situation, then-

“Jaqen!” She raises her voice enough to carry, but is careful not to make her call too sharp. She is sure — and there is no time to think about _why_ yet — that _bloodfighterDeathman_ is lurking non threateningly just behind the trees beyond the clearing. 

The man — convicted murderer — whose life she saved emerges gracefully from the woods, as if he had been merely awaiting her call. 

Her father would have executed him, as his honor compelled him.

Her father’s head is on a pike in King’s Landing.

  
“Do you want a horse? You fought with us last night, and no matter your past, I trust you more than the rest of these louts.” 

If the man went with her boys, they’d have another sword at their backs — a _very_ skilled sword, if she’s remembering what she and Nymeria saw last night correctly. And even if he didn’t, if he went his separate ways, then at least he’d be laying another trail to split up their pursuers. She doesn’t think he is the type to cause trouble for them, like some of the others would if they were able, either.

He blinks, taking a moment to respond, and Arya likes to believe that she has surprised him. She likes being unexpected.

“A man will take the horse with gratitude.” 

Jaqen takes the reins from her hand, and their little pack finishes their preparations. She helps Hot Pie and Gendry onto their horses, and ensures they’re steady enough to ride on their own. As Arya suspected, Jaqen takes the reins and mounts the horse like he knows what he’s doing. 

“Until we meet again, Little Wolf. The Many Faced God is not done with you yet.” 

With that, he kicks his horse’s flanks, leading her boys away. They’re gone from sight in moments.

Nymeria presses into her side, comfort and commiseration in one. They had both lost much since they last saw each other, but that pain doesn’t completely temper the contentment of being together again. Arya turns, hugging the wolf tight, giving them a ten-count to comfort each other, before they turn to their tasks. They can be melancholy later. For now, there are Lannisters to mess with.

* * *

Arya’s first glimpse of her brother in years is as he’s about to _die._

Their pack had been wandering for a while before Arya noticed that their wandering hadn’t been so accidental. They had come across the aftermath of a battle, and Arya had startled at the realization that the war, that the Northern Army, that _her family,_ was just a few miles away. Nymeria had stared at her, and the impression Arya got through their ever-strengthening bond was something like _what, you didn’t notice the pull until now? Pack is close!_

Or, something like that. Arya felt she understood Nymeria’s meaning, by then, more than that the wolf’s wild view of the world formed coherent words. Knowing her (human) family was so close was incredibly motivating. Arya threw herself into tracking the army, relying heavily on Nymeria’s senses to bypass the obvious, but indirect, movements of the large army, aiming straight for Robb. They found the Northern army at some Lannister outpost called Oxcross, and Arya was about to see her brother, nevermind the active battle they had stumbled upon. 

And now, finally, they’re so close that they can _see_ him, alone with a small cluster of enemies, about to be taken from her.

  
_No,_ she decides, or Nymeria does. It doesn’t matter. 

They are moving, and then the man about to strike her brother down is _dead_ and the next one is _dying_ as Robb gets his sword back up _,_ and Arya doesn’t have time to stop and think about it. More lions are coming, and the tide of wolves at Arya’s back has swept her around, away from her brother and _his_ wolves.

They rush down the side of the field, snapping at any Lannisters they get near. She gets a glimpse of Robb reuniting with Grey Wind, their pack of men following his lead without hesitation. The lions had turned to their side, terrified of the snapping jaws of her pack, and now Robb is routing the middle of their army, giving them steel and claws in their back for the trouble. Grey Wind is perhaps not quite so quick and fierce as Nymeria, she thinks — or maybe Nymeria does — but he’s strong, and now that he’s back at Robb’s side, the two are a force to be reckoned with.

It doesn’t take long after that. A good third of the remaining army seems to have gotten trapped between her and Robb’s charges. The remainders quickly surrender or run when the wolves turn on them, together.

The thrill of victory and reunion thrumming in their veins only makes it more upsetting when Arya can’t _find_ her stupid brother after the last lion turns tail and runs from her. He was right there! They were winning! Surely he hadn’t been hurt! The Northern Army wouldn’t be so godsdamn _gleeful_ if something had happened to their king.

But Grey Wind is alone, the only one willing to approach him some haughty lord-

Oh.

_Oh._

Arya knows that Robb had been crowned the King in the North. She does. But knowing it and seeing it are two completely different things. Covered in mud, and fighting, like they always used to in the training yards at Winterfell? Arya recognized Robb from across the battlefield. But now? Standing tall, giving orders? Looking like that iron crown on his head was meant to be there? 

Arya wanted to reunite with her brother. She doesn’t know how to get an audience with a king.

Luckily, she doesn’t have to. She must have hesitated too long, because Grey Wind catches her eye, and comes bounding up, even as Nymeria leaves her side, and she finds herself bowled over by a mass of happy fur and slobber.

Nymeria knocks into Robb at the same time, ignoring the panicking guards around them. Arya did _not_ need to know what her brother’s face tasted like, thanks, and pulls back into herself as much as she can. Grey Wind gives her a sympathetic look, and with one more happy lick, lets her up.

With her own eyes, this time, Arya sees that Nymeria is on Robb, though he was able to get an arm up to halt his anxious men from attacking. 

“Nymeria, Nymeria, let me up!” He calls out, laughter in his voice. That, at least, sounds like her brother.

Nymeria does, indeed, let their brother up, but he doesn’t see her, still focused on the direwolf he hasn’t seen in so long, a piece of his lost family returned to him. 

Grey Wind nudges Arya’s back, pushing her forward, and drawing the crowd’s attention, and Robb’s with it. 

“Grey Wind, who is-”

Arya can tell the moment he recognizes her — apparently she looks as different to him as _King_ Robb had to her.

“...Arya?” he asks, like he’s seeing a ghost. 

Arya will _never_ admit that the next sound she makes might be a sob. It’s not like it matters anyways. He doesn’t need her to answer, he knows it’s her by the same unconscious pull that led her here. Suddenly she’s in his arms, and the world is a blur of joy, hugging her brother and fending off their excited direwolves enough to keep their balance.

“How did you-”

“I can’t believe-”

“-thought you were _dead_ -”

“-leading a whole army!-”

“-and then you burst out with a whole pack-”

“-these people are _listening_ to you-”

“-and that sword!” Robb’s tone shifts, admonishment _dripping_ in his words like he’s their mother. “Why are you jumping in-”

“-You were _alone_ you idiot, how did you get so far out of position? All the rumors said you’re supposed to be _good_ at this sort of thing.” She snaps. She doesn’t know much about strategies when it comes to large scale battles, but she’s pretty sure that’s not supposed to happen to a _King._ Which her brother is now. Which means he shouldn’t be in so much danger that- 

“You put yourself in too much danger!” he snaps back. 

“I’ve _been_ in danger.”

That doesn’t have the effect she intended. Instead of provoking him to continue the argument, it stops him dead. He exhales and slumps, like all the regality he’s gained since she last saw him left in a huff, leaving just Robb, her big brother, behind.

“I know,” he admits and pulls her into another hug. “I’ve been so worried about you.” His arms tighten around her

“I was worried about you, too,” she admits in turn. It feels so nice to lean her head on his chest, for a moment. Like the old days, when she always knew she could go to him in the middle of the night, after a bad dream, that he would be there to comfort her and make things feel safe again. “When I came up on the battle, I thought- what if I lost you-”

“-right when I found you again?” Robb finishes, releasing his hold to look her in the eye. Arya swallows, and reluctantly nods, acknowledging that Robb does, in fact, still understand her. And might, maybe, have been feeling the same, thinking her in danger, and hadn’t just been mad about her fighting because it was _unladylike._

“Yeah.” She swallows. “I knew I could help. I knew _we_ could help. It was just a couple of stupid little lions. Nymeria and the pack and I were more than enough for that.”

“I saw. You all were impressive together. You were impressive on your _own_ \- you know what you’re doing with that sword, don’t you? You got that second one right in the neck! Not an easy target under all that armor!” Robb ruffles her hair. Arya’s too pleased to be mad about it.

“Of course I do!” She preens, glad he could tell she was skilled despite the chaos. “In small skirmishes, at least,” she adds reluctantly. “I’ve never fought in a battle this big before, so I don’t _really_ know where you were supposed to be.”

“No you were right,” he acknowledges in return. “I was out of place. I- it sounds crazy, I know, but I was getting these flashes of Grey Wind’s vision, and I felt this, this _pull_ towards the woods. In the heat of everything… I just slowly ended up in the wrong place without realizing it. I don’t even know what that _was_ , but I swear I’m not making up excuses.”

Arya grins. So His Worshipfulness hadn’t figured it all out yet, then.

“No, I believe you. I know what’s happening. But- maybe not here.” She admits, realizing they’re standing in the midst of an ever growing crowd. Even Grey Wind and Nymeria's presences weren’t really enough to keep them all out of earshot anymore.

Robb looks around, the crowd awaiting their king’s reaction.

“Not only did we win the battle,” he proclaims loudly, “but my sister Arya has returned safely to us!” 

The crowd cheers, and makes way for him to escort Arya into a large tent. He dismisses another Lord who begins to follow them into the tent, and Arya’s heart aches for a moment. She’s used to that kind of power belonging to their father. But the tent flap closes, and the cheerful atmosphere vanishes. They are finally, blessedly _alone._

Arya finds herself in Robb’s arms again, with Nymeria and Grey Wind crowding close in the small space. It should be suffocating but Arya finds she doesn’t mind it at all. She has missed this, missed _family_ so much-

“Me too,” Robb whispers — had she said that out loud? “You and Sansa and- and _Father_ were gone. I had to send Mother and Theon away. All I had left was this crown, and compared to you all, this stupid piece of iron is… it’s not worth it.”

Robb steps back from their embrace, and slumps back onto a chair by a table of maps. He suddenly looks old, like a real, grown-up adult. Something about the eyes… a depth that wasn’t there the last time she has seen him. The same one she had noticed in her own eyes, when she had come across a pond in the forest that was still enough to reflect her face back to her.

She tries to picture him, then. Not her cocky big brother, a boy confident in the fact that his mother and father and the other adults could correct and cover his mistakes. But a man whose confidence had to be real. Who had to be right, be good, be _king_ , all alone. She can imagine how exhausting that must have been for Robb.

Probably as much as having to be Arry, to be A Boy, to be a _killer,_ exhausted her.

“Hey,” she says, only a tad more gently than she means to. She takes his hand. “I’m here now. And disrespecting tradition is supposed to be _my_ job. Don’t take that from me.”

He laughs, and they have another moment of normalcy.

Robb gestures for her to take a seat; she throws herself down onto the ground, where she can lean against Nymeria’s settling form, instead of at the chair he had indicated. He looks like he’s going to scold her for a moment, but she throws pleading eyes at him. _Mother isn’t here right now, let me have this?_ He folds, like he always used to, and doesn’t say anything. 

Instead, they catch up with each other’s recent exploits. Arya doesn’t start by explaining Warging, like she had insinuated in the field, or even with her dramatic reunion with Nymeria. Instead, she starts at the beginning, the road to King’s Landing, as if they were two normal siblings under normal circumstances who had been apart for a while.

Robb had no doubt heard about it from one of Father’s letters, but she makes sure to include the circumstances of Lady’s death in her retelling. It’s painful, and she wants to skim over it quickly, but her memory of Sansa’s very unladylike _howl_ when Lady died seems very important in hindsight. Her sister had been in so much pain, but Arya had been too angry to care. And now it was too late to ever reconcile.

Robb seems to sense her melancholy, and tells her then that Bran had finally named his wolf, Summer, after he had woken up. The news is sweet enough that Arya is able to shove down her regrets and continue with her tale. She tells Robb all about King’s Landing, the people there, the useful back passages she found in the Red Keep. Everything she can think of that might be useful, or that might amuse him. But there’s only so long she can complain about stuffy nobles before she reaches the day King Robert died, and father was betrayed.

“He-,” she stutters, grief obvious in her voice, “He held them off so I could run, my dancing instructor-”

“Dancing instructor?” Robb asked incredulously, and with good reason. Arya _loathed_ dancing. Less than the other womanly arts, but still enough that the obvious grief she had for the man was unusual.

Arya smirks, grief replaced with a bittersweet pride. Then, in a quick, fluid motion, she draws her little sword, spinning into a mock attack with a flourish. “Bravossi Water Dancing. Father hired him for me.”

Robb laughs, but looks appropriately impressed. “Mother is going to be so mad.”

“I’m sure she’ll forgive me once I tell her how it saved my life. And you’re the King, you can make her allow me to keep practicing, right?”

“A wise king knows how to pick his battles. I am _not_ getting between you and Mother on this.”

She doesn’t take the opening to mock his supposed wisdom, as much as she wants to. The next part of the story is too solemn for that.

“I tried to save them, I did, but Yoren held me back! That bastard took father’s head and had Sansa stabbed in the back and-” 

Robb slides down from his stool and pulls her into a hug. Nymeria and Grey Wind shuffle close, licking at her hair in comfort.

“I was right there and I couldn’t do anything and now they’re _gone_ ,” she sobs. “I never even got to tell Sansa that I forgave her!”

“No, no, Arya! Sansa’s alive!”

Arya hiccups. “What?” She had seen her sister collapse, seen glimpses of the Hound dragging her body away, so- “How?”

“We’ve had letters — obviously forced by the Lannisters — but in her own hand. She’s alive.”

“She’s… alive?”

“Yes. She’s a hostage, but they can’t kill her. Not right now.”

He looks so pleased. Like this is good news. All her tales about how awful King’s Landing was, and he still didn’t understand.

She’s alive and Arya _left her there._

Arya had mourned her sister, but at least thought she wasn’t suffering. But if she’s alive-

She’s alone. No family, no household, no _pack._ Their delicate, naive sister, grieving and completely alone in that pit of rats and lions? Arya wouldn’t wish such a fate on Sansa even if she did still blame her for Micah’s fate.

But Robb is smiling a brittle smile, waiting for her to be relieved, and Arya’s eyes catch on that stupid crown. Robb is King in the North, he can’t go rushing off to save her. Can’t use his power to save her, either, or he would have _done that already._ Is doing it, perhaps, leading his army further and further South, winning this war. She can’t bear to break his heart.

She nods, accepting the news, and continues her tale. About pretending to be Arry, making friends, fighting gold cloaks. About melding with Nymeria, knowing no difference between herself and her wolf. About Warging.

Robb’s attention is rapt as she finishes her tale, and they devolve into comparing their experiences, discussing the tactical usage of their capabilities. Eventually, Robb’s advisors can wait no longer, and they are forced to face the rest of the world. Arya has brought them a wealth of useful information, apparently, from her travels, and Robb claims this means she must stay. They review the battle’s success, and plot their next move. The whole thing lasts well into the night. 

Arya never gets a chance to bring up Sansa, to make _sure_ there’s nothing else they can do for her.

She doesn’t forget, though.

* * *

“Your Grace?”

It’s only been a few days since they reunited, but Arya knows she will _never_ get used to Robb being called that. In fact, she refuses to get used to it. He’s her idiotic older brother, whether he’s an heir, a Lord, or even the King in the North. It’s her prerogative to make sure his head doesn’t get too swollen for that iron crown of his. 

“Come in,” Robb calls out. Her brother’s page throws back the thick cloth pretending to be a door secure enough for private conversations and steps into the tent.

“Your Grace, there’s a man here claiming to know the princess-” Arya scowls “- and requesting an audience with her.”

“Who is it?”

  
“That’s just it, Your Grace. He didn’t give a name. _A Man_ is here to see Arya Stark.”

Arya stills. No. No way.

“Let him in!” She jumps to her feet, and tries not to be irritated that the man waits for Robb to motion his assent before he leaves. Ugh, _Kings,_ and all the stupid rules about them slowing things down, when she needs to know, needs to see-

Jaqen steps into the tent.

“Where are Gendry and Hot Pie? Are they okay?” Arya is on him in an instant, but he’s unruffled by her close presence and demands.

“The boys are well.” The flash of panic Arya felt eases. She hadn’t realized how much she had trusted Jaqen to look after her boys until he had stepped into the tent _alone._ “They did not believe a man that their friend was likely to be here, and opted to wait away from the war camp without proof.”

“Not a bad call,” Robb says, before Arya can get irritated with that choice. She wants to see them _now_ , but it’s not a bad thing that they’re being cautious.

Annoyingly, _Robb_ is being cautious too. He puts his foot down about letting Arya wander off into the woods with a strange man alone. He does, at least, agree to send some men to go with Jaqen and bring them back. But first-

“A man owes a girl.” Jaqen states in that declarative way of his, which brooks no argument. He “Her friends are returned, in thanks for the horse. But a girl saved three lives that night, and so I will give you three names.”  
  
“Three names?” Arya asks warily. A glance at Robb tells her that even _His Highness_ isn’t quite sure what the man before them means.

“Three people, I will send to the Many-Faced God, at your will.”

Robb understands first. “You’re an assassin. One of the faceless men.” 

Jaqen nods.

“And you’d… kill… three people? If I named them?”

“Just so.” The man nods again.

Arya considers.

She should offer the names to Robb. Three strategic kills could devastate the Lannisters, if Robb was willing to use such a tactic. They should talk to the other Lords, his advisors, plan out how to best use their temporary assassin. 

Yet, another thought has bloomed in Arya’s mind. It’s selfish, so selfish, when Jaqen’s work could save thousands of Northern lives. But unlike Robb, Arya is _not_ a King. She’s not responsible for a whole people. Just her pack.

“You promised me three names. That you would take care of three people I wanted dead.”

“A man did, and a man will.”

“What if I name someone I want alive? How many names would it cost me to save someone instead?”

“To swear myself to someone? To protect their life forever? Far more than three names, girl.”

“But what about just once? What if I wanted you to rescue someone, and bring them back here?”

“...That, a man could do. Give me the name. _One_ name, to save.”

Arya grins, a feral pleasure rising in her chest. 

“Sansa Stark.”


End file.
